George Balanchine famously stated: “I don’t want people who want to dance, I want people who have to dance”. I was reminded of this quote when I had the privilege of seeing the incomparable Stephen Fry talk at the Regent Theatre in Melbourne. Regaling us with charming and often hilarious tales of discovering and pursuing his passions, at one point he recounted the scene from the cinematic masterpiece The Red Shoes in which our aspiring ballerina Victoria Page first encounters ballet company impresario Boris Lermentov:
Lermentov: Why do you want to dance?
Page: Why do you want to live?
Lermentov: Well I don’t know exactly why, er, but I must.
Page: That’s my answer too.
Page: Why do you want to live?
Lermentov: Well I don’t know exactly why, er, but I must.
Page: That’s my answer too.
Fry used this analogy to exemplify the difference between mere desire and inexplicable need. Like involuntary functions as mundane but vital as breathing – for Fry, writing became his lifeblood; essential to his existence. I walked away from Fry’s talk feeling inspired and compelled to introspection. I was fascinated by this notion of want versus need and how pertinent it is in shaping one’s destiny. I also wondered whether, like an involuntary function, its manifestation is so natural, so right, that it is imperceptible, or whether someone has to experience a single defining moment to know that they are fulfilling their true calling. I’m often asked at what point in my life I decided to become a ballet dancer. My answer is always vague, a patchwork of various turning points and epiphanies (the day that my teacher Mrs Jenkins suggested to my parents, when I was ten years old, that I come in for private ballet lessons after school because she recognised talent in me; going to see Sydney Dance Company in Graeme Murphy’sBerlin aged 12; watching Alessandra Ferri and Julio Bocca perform the ‘Balcony Pas de Deux’ from Romeo and Juliet on video, aged 14; witnessing the pride and enjoyment it endlessly gave my parents and those around me and realising that I shared those feelings in my dancing). Is the fact that I am now eight years into a happy career and have been dancing for a total 21 of my 26 years enough to confirm that dancing was my lifeblood? Do I want to dance or do I need to dance?
Juliet Burnett. Photography Jo Duck
I thought that imagining my life without dancing might be a good way to find out. The thing about pursuing a career in dance is that hours and years of training must be dedicated to it, and because it demands such finely tuned physical and emotional skills, it is by its very nature an all-consuming art form. In other words, it is hard for me to imagine living without dance simply because it has defined my life. But that’s not to say that it is all of my life. I hold many passionate interests outside ballet – the visual arts, music, nature, writing – all of which are intrinsically part of my life and whose influences nurture my approach to dancing. I have the occasional flight of fancy in which I pursue one of these other passions; indeed someone like Fry seems to do quite a good job at writing, speaking, hosting TV shows and acting. He manages to maintain his lifeblood while engaging himself in a multitude of other creative vocations.
Interestingly, the central theme of The Red Shoes is that of the struggle between one’s passions – between romantic love and artistic expression; between real life and life onstage played out in front of an audience. The two passions are depicted as impossible to coexist in harmony in one artistic soul. Oh, the torment! One could easily construe the moral lesson of the film to be as black and white as that (which today seems preposterous, given the number of happily married dancers in The Australian Ballet at the moment), but I would argue that the lesson is that in order to truly and wholly live life, we can’t let ourselves become blinded by our passions to the point where they become obsessions. Being obsessed implies obstinacy and blindness, which would lead to an imbalanced and unhappy life. When you experience an inexplicable urge, when you simply need to or must do something, pursue something – that is not an obsession, it is response to instinct.
And so when I do imagine my life without dancing, it’s not such a bleak picture that flashes before me. At this stage in my life, of all my passions, I have only experienced the inexplicable urge, the need, the instinct to dance. I feel wholly fulfilled by the joy that dancing gives me. Perhaps the magic I experience onstage shows that my need to dance transcends analysis. And I guess that is all the confirmation I could hope for.
Those other passions can remain – if they have been such an enriching part of my life thus far, why would I let them go? And besides, I need to harbour them, for a dancer’s career has a ruthlessly brief timeframe. Inevitably, there will come a day when my body will protest relentlessly after years of push and pull, and no amount of passion and persistence could convince it to continue dancing. Or maybe it is my heart that will, just as imperceptibly as when it had instilled my need to dance, take that very need away. I wonder, then, what adventures the next chapter will hold – in which I immerse myself in one of my other passions and discover I have a new lifeblood? I guess I’m counting on old friend Instinct to kick in, when it’s time.
